


Day's Most Quiet Need

by tamed_untranslatable



Series: The World-Without-End Hour [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9124171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamed_untranslatable/pseuds/tamed_untranslatable
Summary: After a close call, John recovers from his injury back at home, with an ever-devoted Sherlock to look after him. But John's not the only one who needs to heal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a sequel to [The World-Without-End Hour](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6293695), but you probably don't have to have read that one to understand what's going on here (though I'd appreciate it if you did :))
> 
> As with that fic, I've done my best to keep the medical stuff as accurate as possible, but also Dammit Jim I'm A Writer Not A Doctor, so please excuse any inaccuracies you smarter people might find. 
> 
> Thanks as always to [Lynette](http://eevee436.tumblr.com) for beta-ing and for emotional support <3.

The ache in John's side - most likely, though it could have been the headache or the dry throat or the stiffness in his joints - was what pulled him out of sleep.

It had been four days since he'd been released from hospital, and though he hadn't expected to make a miraculous overnight recovery - getting near-fatally stabbed through vital abdominal organs rarely allowed for that - he was starting to tire of all the ways his body was struggling to pull itself back to health. If by some generous reprieve the wound itself wasn't throbbing, then it was a dull pounding in his temple, or nausea from the pain meds, or strange vertigo-like dizziness from his body misdirecting all his blood. Often it was all of the above, usually accompanied by plain exhaustion. John couldn't remember the last time he had slept so much - it was virtually all he could do in this state, and the bizarre disorientation that came with waking up at noon and falling asleep on the sofa an hour later, as he'd apparently done again today, wasn't making the experience any easier.

John scowled a bit as he drifted towards consciousness. He knew he shouldn't complain; he'd been a quarter of an inch of that knife away from not being here at all. Still, doctors do always make the worst patients, John thought dimly.

He groaned low in his sandpaper-rough throat as he stretched out his leaden limbs. He rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes, squinting against the tempered late-afternoon light.

"Hello, sleeping beauty."

John smirked; his eyes focused enough to reveal Sherlock already kneeling by his side, mouth quirked gently upwards.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock reached up to brush John's hair away from his eyes.

John's smile stretched wider; he tried his best not to twist it into a grimace. "I've been better." The pain in his side was now radiating up through his chest.

"Here, take these." Sherlock opened his other hand, revealing two tiny white capsules.

John sighed gratefully. He pushed himself up to sitting with some effort, letting Sherlock guide him. He took the pills and swallowed them down with the glass of water Sherlock offered him, washing the dryness from his throat.

"There, that will help." Sherlock was holding him by the nape of his neck with gentle fingers. "What else do you need?"

John blinked lazily, moving back into his touch. "Wouldn't say no to a cuppa."

Sherlock smiled wide, and almost at that exact moment John heard the click of the kettle switching itself off from the kitchen.

John laughed aloud, wincing only slightly at the pang it sent through his head. Sherlock joined him, his low chuckle ringing out in counterpoint to John's higher one.

"Right away, then." He moved to gather himself up off the floor. "Anything else? Are you hungry?"

The thought of food made John's stomach churn away his laughter. "No, not at all," he said, grimacing, knowing his non-existent appetite would only be worsened in a couple hours by the nausea. Sherlock nodded.

"Alright, just tea." He stroked down John's nape once and squeezed his shoulder gently as he stood. "Coming right up."

He leaned up to kiss John's forehead, sweet and smiling, before walking off to the kitchen. John watched him go, fondness radiating out of the lines of his brow.

All throughout this whole mess, Sherlock had been amazing. He’d been looking after John as if it were second nature – making he sure he took his meds, checking his stitches every morning, making teas and dinners and ensuring he kept his strength up. Most of the time John never even had to ask for what he needed, because Sherlock had already worked it out and taken care of it before John was even aware of what it was. He hadn’t let John worry about anything, sorting out everything for him back at the hospital, and John had been able to relax into his recovery more effectively than he’d ever done before, letting Sherlock’s gentle hands and loving concern wash over him, heal him. Letting Sherlock be, as he always was, John’s beacon of light, guiding him to safety. Guiding him home.

John listened to him puttering around in the kitchen, the familiar sounds and movements trickling through the sitting room and loosening the knot behind his temple. Yes, getting better was a pain, but John knew by now that he could never hurt for very long as long as Sherlock was there. And right now, that was truer than ever.

Sherlock soon emerged with a steaming mug in one hand and a small plate of biscuits in the other; he smiled a bit shyly and set the biscuits on the table before pushing the mug into John’s hand. “Try to eat _something_ , at least.”

“Thanks, love.” John’s heart swelled a bit, though he knew he wouldn’t be touching them. He pushed himself fully upright and cradled the tea in front of his face, pulling the warm fragrance in through his nose to chase away the remaining tension in his muscles.

“Will you–?” he began, but Sherlock had read his mind again and was already sitting down next to him, and with an arm wrapped around his shoulders pulled John in to rest against his side.

John hummed appreciatively and sank into him; he closed his eyes for a moment and rested his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. He was so solid, yet so soft, surrounding him at all angles, and it was impossible for John to feel anything but perfectly whole when he was in this space.

“Sorry I slept through the day again,” he murmured quietly. Sherlock’s breath was warm against his skin.

“Don’t be. You’re recovering.” So gently John almost didn’t feel it, Sherlock pressed a kiss into John’s hair. “You need it.”

“Yeah.” John grinned a bit and opened his eyes, bringing the mug to his lips and sipping at the milky liquid. “Bit unfair though, me lazing around all day while you do all the work and worry about me.”

“It’s my job to worry about you.” There was a smile in Sherlock’s voice, but he was holding himself a bit more tensely than usual. It was subtle, but it was there in the way he was sitting up just a little too straight, in the gentle pattern he was tracing up John’s arm that felt a bit more anxious than absentminded.

He huffed out a miniscule breath of laughter. “But you don’t have to.” John turned his face toward Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in. “I’m getting stronger every day, thanks to you.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, but John thought he felt him swallow heavily before speaking. “Still, you’ve some ground to cover yet. Has the dizziness come back?”

John’s grin broadened against Sherlock’s skin. “No, but I haven’t tried standing yet.”

“And the pain?”

“Better than yesterday.” John sank even more heavily into Sherlock’s side, wanting him to relax just as much as he was. The wound had now dimmed to a dull ache, the shooting pains of a moment ago gone; John could just about ignore it.

He could almost see Sherlock pursing his lips above him. “But it still hurts.” It was only barely a question.

“Well, give the painkillers a minute.” John hid his chuckle in another sip of his tea. “I’m fine, love. Really. How could I not be, when I’ve got you?”

Sherlock sighed – a tiny breath of air that ruffled John’s hair fractionally. Still, John could feel the anxiety in it.

“I need to be sure,” Sherlock whispered.

John pulled back then to look up at him, searching those beautiful eyes veiled with a thin sheet of concern.

“I know.” He leaned in close, close enough for their noses to brush and their breaths to mingle. “You’ve been wonderful.”

Sherlock smiled, the smallest quirk of his lips, and he leaned in to close the last centimeter of space between them. The kiss was the barest brush of contact, Sherlock simply holding himself against John’s lips, chaste but lingering, and John didn’t move, content to absorb the reverence of that gentle touch, to feel that whisper of breath that flowed between them, almost fragile. Feel that quiet, familiar devotion that said _I’m here_ and _I’m going to take care of you_.

John let it flow into him, let it envelop him, pushing away all of his pain and leaving warmth in its wake. When he broke it off, it was only to push himself back into Sherlock’s embrace, and he settled his head on his shoulder and let his arm tighten around him, strong and steadfast, comforting.

Sherlock held him there for a moment; his nose was pressed lightly into John’s hair, breathing him in. “I should start on dinner.”

“Stay here for a bit.” John muttered. His eyes were sliding closed, and he burrowed himself still closer into Sherlock, not willing to leave just yet. He knew he shouldn’t, he’d just woken up after all, but the pain in his side was fading fast now, and Sherlock was so _warm_ , and maybe he could just kip for a couple minutes before something else made him get up, before this perfect, peaceful space was driven away…

“Alright,” Sherlock murmured back. He resumed his stroking up John’s arm, but the motion felt…less restless now? John was too drowsy to tell.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” John whispered. He knew the endearment would make Sherlock’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and was just a bit disappointed he couldn’t see them as he sighed contentedly into Sherlock’s collarbone. “Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Sherlock gently took the mug out of John’s faltering fingers and laid it on the table.

John smiled softly, feeling his mind slow to a blissful crawl and fade into the warmth of Sherlock’s body, beside him, all around him, keeping him safe. Just as he was dozing off, Sherlock pressed a firm kiss to the crown of John’s head, and didn’t move away.

“I love you,” he whispered, and his voice was too heavy, almost broken, but a reply was already far beyond John’s reach, and he’d slipped into sleep before the weight of it could settle on him.

***

The painless comfort of that afternoon didn’t last, as John knew it wouldn’t, but it was still no less frustrating to be awakened as result of full-body soreness warring with full-body exhaustion, with the pain eventually winning out. It happened so often this past week and a half that John was almost used to it, but it hadn’t yet become much easier.

The painkillers that Sherlock brought him helped some, as did the chicken that John managed to take a few bites of. Then, later, as he curled up with his head in Sherlock’s lap with some second-rate crime drama playing on the telly, he could almost distract himself enough with the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers stroking through his hair and forget why he was in such an awful state. The wound kept flaring up though, and eventually it became so impossible to ignore that Sherlock had to drug him up further and put him to bed, arranging him like a ragdoll so that he wouldn’t roll onto it during the night, and then Sherlock lay next to him rubbing soothing circles into his stomach and sides until John could relax enough to let exhaustion win over the pain, and drift into a light, semi-restless sleep.

It was a bit better in the morning. John managed to wake up with the sun streaming into the bedroom window, earlier than he’d done so far since he’d been home. Sherlock was already awake, as usual, and leaned over to kiss him good morning before pulling him out of bed to half-lead, half-support him towards the bathroom to check his stitches and change his bandage.

John sat on the closed toilet seat and dutifully lifted his arms, wincing only slightly as he allowed Sherlock to pull his t-shirt over his head.

“This isn’t how I imagined you playing nurse.” John’s voice was a bit too rough to achieve the lightheartedness he was going for.

Sherlock was kneeling in front of him, grinning as he began to gently peel away the bandage. “I think what you were imagining would be ill-advised given your current health.”

“No, not _that_ ,” John laughed, then fought to suppress a groan as the movement expanded his chest at the wound. “Just,” he gritted his teeth slightly, tried reign in the pain. “I guess I didn’t expect you to be so good at it.” He shook his head a bit. “Silly of me.”

“Well,” Sherlock smirked as he dropped the bandage into the bin. “I may not have your expertise, but I _have_ picked up a thing or two over the years.”

John chuckled softly, even though that wasn’t what he’d meant. He’d meant that he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so… _confident_ in everything. He hadn’t expected him to transform so fully into the pillar of strength John needed, without a care for himself. John knew Sherlock worried about him, knew how scared he’d been after it had happened and it wasn’t clear that John would make it out alive, but Sherlock had seemingly tucked that away now, focusing only on what John needed and how he could make this as easy as possible for him. 

“And you’ve been an uncommonly good patient, which has helped.” Sherlock brushed his fingers gently over John’s stitches, and the soft touch sent the tiniest shiver racing along John’s skin. “Most people tend to be rather more irritable after a trauma like this.”

John grinned a bit more, tilting his head back a bit with a sigh. “I know. You should have seen me after I got shot.”

Sherlock breathed out a gentle laugh against John’s chest. “I’m sure you can’t have been as bad as I was.”

“Oh, I was. Much, much worse.” John cast his gaze downward to watch Sherlock’s fingers trace the wound, testing each of the stitches to make sure they were still holding. “Every one of the nurses there hated me. I swear they would have poisoned me if I hadn’t been sent home soon enough.”

Sherlock chuckled at that, low in his chest, but there was something a bit off about it that John’s pain-addled brain couldn’t quite recognize. He looked up at Sherlock’s face, and found that the laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Satisfied with the stitches, Sherlock stood up to grab a hand towel from the cabinet. “Harry called after you fell asleep last night.” He turned on the tap briefly, running it under the warm water. “She’s coming by this afternoon to see you.”

“Oh, God,” John groaned. The thought made traces of yesterday’s headache begin to creep back in. “Didn’t you tell her I was still injured?”

“Yes, I think that’s why she wants to come, in fact,” Sherlock replied sardonically. He wrung out the towel and dropped back to his knees in front of John. 

“God, she’s gonna be insufferable.” John shut his eyes briefly. Harry’s busy work schedule had kept her from visiting John more than once while he’d been in hospital, and she’d been so frantic as she fussed over him, snapping at Sherlock and all the doctors, that John had had to pretend to fall asleep to get her to leave. 

“Probably, yes.” Sherlock’s hand was steady, gentle as he swiped the towel along John’s skin, lightly cleaning the area around the stitches. His other hand rested on John’s hip, holding him. “It’s her way of showing she cares.”

“Then I wish she’d care a little less,” John sighed. Maybe he was being unfair, and he _did_ appreciate her concern on some level, but he was still in no state to handle Harry in her full capacity yet. And he _definitely_ didn’t want to make Sherlock deal with her; they got on well enough, but Harry’s often manic intensity made Sherlock anxious even at the best of times.

Sherlock smirked a bit as he dabbed away the last of the adhesive residue left by the bandage, then tugged a dry towel off the rack. “She won’t stay long, you know her.” He carefully patted at John’s skin with it, drying off the wound. “And if she gets to be too much, I’ll put her off.”

John looked down at Sherlock’s face, at the warmth in his eyes even through his concentration, and felt a warm tide of affection surge up from his chest and lodge in his throat. Just to have Sherlock here, tending to him so devotedly, so attentively, even to the point of dealing with his ridiculous sister, felt like more than John could ever have imagined he deserved. How this amazing man managed to do everything John needed, _be_ everything John needed at any given time never stopped being a mystery to him, and it was one he never tired of trying to solve.

John reached up to thread his fingers through the hair at Sherlock’s nape, feeling how soft, how beautiful, how _real_ he was. Sherlock smiled at the contact, picked up a fresh bandage and tore open the plastic wrapping.

“I’m sorry to make you do all this.” The words came out in almost a whisper, thick with feeling.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked urgently up to his. “Don’t. Don’t apologize.” There was something desperate in his eyes, even though his voice was firm, and he smoothed his hand up John’s side, soothing him. Grounding him.

John smiled quietly back at him. He twisted a loose curl around his forefinger. “I’m just glad we’ve been lucky so far.” He huffed out a small laugh, imagining. “That it’s been healing alright, and it hasn’t gotten infected or anything. God knows you didn’t sign up to clean pus out of me every morning.”

Sherlock laughed at that, and John felt relief pushing away the tension of the moment. “Actually, I did.” Sherlock grinned as he unwound the new bandage. “‘In sickness and in health,’ remember?”

John pursed his lips to prevent his smile from splitting his face in two. He thought his heart might burst out of his chest.

He watched Sherlock’s strong, nimble fingers as they applied the new bandage, smooth it over gently, making sure it covered everything and stayed in place. When he was done, he leaned in and pressed gentle kiss to the skin right above it, like he always did, and if anything could have taken away John’s pain in that moment, that was it.

***

Harry _was_ insufferable, from the moment she entered the door and began her torrent of worrying, flitting from chair to chair and around the sitting room like some sort of fretful bird. It would have made John laugh if she hadn’t been so bloody agitated. 

“…and you’re _insane_ for coming home so early.” She dropped heavily down next to John on the sofa and reached for one of the teacups that Sherlock had laid out. “I thought you’d have stayed in hospital for at least another week, maybe two–”

“No, God no, absolutely not.” John rubbed hard at his temple. “I _would_ have gone insane if I’d stayed any longer.”

Harry looked almost affronted as she rolled her eyes. “Then you’re taking risks _and_ missing the point. What if something happens to you here and you can’t get to the doctor in time?”

“What the hell’s going to happen to me when I’m just sitting at home?” John smirked, then turned away so she wouldn’t see. He looked toward the kitchen where Sherlock was clearing away the kettle, and grinned when he caught his eye and saw that he was sniggering quietly.

“Well, you’re not immortal, John.” Harry took a swig of her tea. “And just because Sherlock’s been looking after you doesn’t mean he can fix everything.”

“It’s _fine_ , Harry, I–”

“He’s not even a _doctor_ , he’s hardly qualified to get you better. What if he buggers something up and you can’t fix it, or something goes wrong and he’s not here? It’s not like he can wait on you every minute of the day, and he can’t really be doing it _properly –_ ”

“Harry, that’s enough,” John cut in firmly. He glanced back to the kitchen, but Sherlock had moved further in to where John couldn’t see him.

It was obvious that she had more to say, but Harry lifted a hand in deference and sipped at her tea again. John tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral, but it wasn’t long before he realized it was hopeless and needed her gone, and Sherlock promptly ushered her out with quick pleasantries before she could protest too much.

“Sorry about her,” John said, relieved, as Sherlock closed the door after her. “I swear it was almost easier when she drank.”

“Don’t worry.” Sherlock turned around with a soft smile. His phone buzzed in his trouser pocket. “The Lestrades send their love, by the way.”

John felt himself tense up again. “They’re not–?”

“No, I put them off until tomorrow,” Sherlock reassured him. He stepped forward and cupped John’s jaw with a steady hand. “You need to rest now, I think.”

John sighed gratefully, turning into Sherlock’s touch. It was warm and firm, but John thought he detected the same hint of anxiety that he’d felt yesterday, the same that he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes that morning.

“I’ll get you something for your headache,” Sherlock said, and John tilted his head up to accept the kiss he offered, quick but tender, before watching him move off toward the bathroom – and John couldn’t be sure, but the thought maybe Sherlock was moving a bit quicker than he would normally have done. Trying a bit harder to put space between himself and John.

Molly and Greg were mercifully calmer when they came by the next day, and they stayed long enough for Sherlock to run out of teas to prepare and washing up to do; he came and sat by John and contributed to a fairly pleasant conversation about his recovery and when the Yard could expect to have them back to work (far too long, John thought). And if he noticed John watching him a bit more intently, seeking signs of distress through his comfortable, easy exterior, he didn’t let on.

“…finally caught him going over Southwark bridge.” Lestrade finished his story with just a hint of pride in his voice. “He was easy enough to find – you wouldn’t have liked it, Sherlock – but he gave us a hell of a chase.”

“Sorry we missed it,” John said, a bit thrilled in spite of himself. He _had_ been missing this a little, cooped up at home for days on end.

“They’ll have to get something great for you when you’re better, John,” Molly chimed in with a smile. “Maybe a celebratory serial killer to say ‘welcome back.’”

“Oh, that’d be great, wouldn’t it, love?” John looked over at Sherlock, laughter in his voice, and Sherlock grinned and looked bashfully down at his lap.

“Well, I’ll do my best to schedule one,” Lestrade chuckled in reply. “Hard to get them to work with you sometimes though, these murderers.”

“Not to worry, we’ll wait.” Sherlock looked pointedly back at John, eyes sparkling with mirth, his smile slightly stiff. “You won’t be up to it for a while, anyway.”

“Hey, don’t spoil it.” John heard the note of plaintiveness in his voice even as he tried to keep things light.

“He’s right, John. Best not to rush things, you know. Play it safe.” Molly’s smile was sympathetic, but her voice was even. “You’re lucky you’ve got Sherlock here to look after you.”

John sighed a bit, swallowing down the fondness that surged up without warning in his throat. He reached between them to give Sherlock’s leg an affectionate squeeze.

“I am,” he said, a bit quieter, a bit more urgent. “I really, really am.”

***

John awoke a few days later in less pain than he’d been in all week, though surprised not to find Sherlock lying next to him in bed, or standing beside it, ready to begin their bandage-changing ritual. Even as he drifted into consciousness, a shadow of alarm crept into John’s heart which was already aching a bit at the lack of him, and he rolled over to find a scrap of paper on the end table with a scribbled _gone to the shops, back soon_ on it, followed by a tiny drawing of a heart.

John sighed and sank back down onto the pillow, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. A strange mix of relief and disappointment was clouding over his thoughts, collecting into something greyer than the soft yellow sunlight seemed to allow.

He’d been hoping, maybe, to keep Sherlock in bed on one of these mornings, one where his wound was quiet enough and everything else took a break for an hour or so. He loved Sherlock in the mornings, so soft and pliant, all warm skin and private smiles, and he’d missed that easy intimacy in the resolute way Sherlock had taken up his duties since John had been home. He’d tried, too – their last couple good-morning kisses, John had pulled Sherlock close to deepen them, pushing his tongue gently into Sherlock’s mouth and feeling his body relax under his hands – before Sherlock’s back would stiffen and he’d break away gently, pulling John up out of bed and into the bathroom before John could formulate a reason for them to stay.

He knew why, of course: John still had a lot of strength to recover, and it was a risk Sherlock wasn’t willing to take yet. But the longer this went on, the more John found that he was rather eager to start taking more risks, in fact. And it sounded petty, even ungrateful, which John could certainly never be, but he sometimes wished Sherlock would boil some eyeballs in the kettle, or have a strop on the sofa, or propose some mad scheme for the two of them to do something ridiculous, just so John could feel like things were normal again.

John sighed once more, stretching out his arms and running his hand through his hair. It was silly, he knew, to be so impatient; he reminded himself that he was lucky to be alive, even, and that he’d have all of his life back, all of _Sherlock_ back, soon enough. Still, the fact that it had been since the night before he’d been stabbed that they’d made love – nearly two and a half weeks now – wasn’t exactly helpful to the situation.

Soon enough, John was pulled out of his thoughts by the front door of the flat creaking open, and familiar footsteps sounded out through the hall, stopped briefly in the kitchen, then made their way toward the bedroom and Sherlock was pushing open the door.

“Morning,” John smiled up at him, his voice still raspy from sleep. Sherlock was looking positively angelic, surrounded by sunshine leaking in from the sitting room which brought out the lighter undertones in his curls.

“Sorry, I was hoping to be back before you woke up.” Sherlock came forward to sit on the edge of the bed, supporting John as he pushed himself up to sitting.

“Don’t worry,” John said, threading a hand back through those curls and leaning in to kiss him. He lingered there for a bit, enjoying the taste of Sherlock – black coffee shrouding a hint of morning breath – but didn’t push it any further, knowing Sherlock would have other plans for this morning and not wanting to make him feel guilty about it.

“How’s the pain?” Sherlock asked as he pulled back, keeping himself near John’s lips, his breath warm and sweet.

“Better.” John breathed him in, stroking a thumb gently along one gorgeous cheekbone. “Much better.”

Sherlock hummed in approval, lips twitching upward. “Feeling up to breakfast? I bought fresh bread from that bakery on Marylebone.”

“Yeah, I could eat,” John replied, realizing with relief that his stomach wasn’t in knots this morning. He took Sherlock’s hand as he pulled back and made to gather him up out of bed. “Did you get coffee?”

Sherlock smirked, pushing the covers away and pulling John to his feet. “If I did, you know you’re not allowed to have it yet.”

“Damn, thought I might catch you out,” John grimaced only slightly as he stood, finding his balance. “I’m just tired of sleeping all day.” 

“I know.” That same uneasiness flashed across Sherlock’s face again, worrying his lips into a thin line for the briefest of moments before evening out. “But we’ll get you fed, and showered, and I’ll make the tea strong – that should help a bit. And Mrs. Hudson’s been nagging me about wanting to cook for us, so she’ll keep us busy for a while today, I’m sure.”

“Mmm, great,” John replied with a smirk. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and leaned into him, though not entirely because he needed the support. “Maybe we can talk her into a game of Cluedo – liven things up a bit.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t think so. We’re supposed to keep you _away_ from stress, remember?”

“Hey, come on. It’s been too long since I saw you have a go at something inanimate.” John was chuckling now, feeling light, and he swiveled in Sherlock’s arms to bring their lips together again, tasting his smile. His hands rested at the small of Sherlock’s back and he was solid as ever, holding John up, holding him close, but there was that something again, that bit of… _hesitation_ , John realized. That almost undetectable difference in his stance, in the tension of his arms, that felt like Sherlock was holding himself just barely at a distance, even as his hands were strong against John’s back, even as his lips were quirked warmly upward, drawing John in. 

John pulled back and looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, looking for that hesitation there too, crinkling his forehead a bit when he found none. 

“You know we’re gonna be alright, don’t you?” John murmured in the space between them. “This is just temporary, this is – minor. I’ll be back on my feet soon, really soon.” 

Sherlock blinked two, three times, a crinkle of confusion appearing at the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I know.” His eyes bored deeply into John’s “Are you alright? Did something–?”

“No, no, not that.” John said quickly. He smoothed his hand gently up Sherlock’s back, though he was unsure now if he was trying to comfort him or just get back that gentle closeness of a few moments ago. He wished he hadn’t said anything.

Sherlock stared for a few more moments, then nodded once, slowly. “Good,” he said, his voice quiet, though a smile was pulling at his lips again. “Let’s check your bandage then, shall we?”

John nodded back, a bit relieved, as he let Sherlock take his hand and lead him toward the bathroom. He stayed quiet though; something was still troubling the back of his mind, something about those glimpses he kept catching that made a trickle of anxiety pool in his heart. Maybe he was imagining it – he must be, John thought, and bit his lip at the thought that he was still unable to really read Sherlock, even after all their years together. Still, even as Sherlock’s confident fingers smoothed over his skin, offering comfort in his touch and in his eyes and in his words, John couldn’t help but feel that he was holding something back – somewhere John couldn’t reach him.

***

The days dragged onward, with hardly enough change in John’s condition to make them worth noting. The wound still throbbed, though the painkillers were mostly enough to force it down to a manageable ache, and the nausea and headaches came in intervals that were only slightly shorter each time. Mostly, now, John was starting to get restless – days of crap telly and sleep were wearing on his mind like a whetstone slowly scraping away, and his limbs itched with the desire to get out of the flat, to seek that excitement he relied on so much now, just to _do_ something that didn’t feel like waiting for his body to catch up with his mind. He was starting to understand exactly how Sherlock felt when he didn’t have the work, and was surprised that Sherlock hadn’t expressed any of the same impatience to go back to it as John was feeling – as Sherlock undoubtedly _would_ be feeling in any other circumstance.

“Can’t we go on a case?” John asked over breakfast one morning, the pleading tone embarrassingly loud in his voice as he picked at his scrambled eggs and toast.

Sherlock lowered his newspaper, an almost affronted look of surprise lining his forehead. “A _case?_ ”

“Yeah.” John quirked his eyebrow up, almost imploringly. “Just an easy one, something without running?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit, the crease in his brow growing deeper. “Do you maybe want to run that past your own medical expertise, doctor?”

“Come on, love, I’m going mental here.” John’s voice was hoarse with frustration. His hand clenched involuntarily at his side, and he prayed that Sherlock couldn’t see it. “It’s been weeks – I know you understand. It doesn’t even have to be a real case, just.” John sighed deeply, searching Sherlock’s unsure face. “Something to get us out of the flat?”

Sherlock cast his eyes downward, his teeth worrying his bottom lip, clearly weighing the possibility in his mind. His fingers fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug, a tense gesture that John recognized immediately.

“Well.” Sherlock’s voice was light when he spoke, though the note of hesitation was barely concealed. “I suppose I could respond to Mycroft’s badgering about finishing up the case file for his investigation…”

John huffed out something between a laugh and a groan; the idea of Mycroft _and_ paperwork was just the opposite of what he needed. “I’d rather be stabbed again.”

He regretted it as soon as he said it – a shadow passed over Sherlock’s face, brief but unmistakable, and John knew he saw him swallow down a lump in his throat before he could recover his features into a smirk. His eyes brightened as he chuckled low and rumbling in his chest, but there was something hollow about it, definitely, some part of that shadow that lingered even as Sherlock pushed it away. 

“Fair enough,” he smiled, reaching for his mobile in the pocket of his dressing gown. “I’ll see if Lestrade has something below a six.”

John grinned back as a he felt a small weight lift from his chest. “Perfect,” he said, and reached across the table to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s, hoping to coax that remaining anxiety out of him, hoping Sherlock would let him shoulder some of it. Sherlock’s brow smoothed into contentment as he brought the phone up to his ear and let it ring, but somehow John didn’t feel quite as relieved as he thought he would.

Lestrade was surprised to hear from them, but quickly agreed to let them meet him at a sporting goods shop in Camden that had been broken into without any trace on the CCTV. Fairly mundane, but John felt that familiar thrill anyway all the way there and let himself get lost in it as he poked around the shop and asked all his usual questions, even though he knew Sherlock could have probably solved it at the breakfast table if he hadn’t been humoring him.

He was tired in a good way by the time they were finished, feeling like he’d done something monumental despite the simplicity of the crime scene. His head felt clearer than it had done in days, and it was absolutely worth the soreness in his side that flared up again after he’d turned around too fast to watch Sherlock deduce the thief for the attending officers. They’d left quickly after that, Sherlock passing him an extra dose of painkillers as they got in a cab back to Baker Street, but John felt satisfied knowing that this had put them both a bit more at ease than they’d been all week.

***

It didn’t take long for that to wear off. The pain didn’t recede as it normally did that evening, and John’s stomach twisted around itself as the drugs struggled and failed to fight it. He had to shrug away Sherlock’s attempts to get him to eat, and fell into a fitful sleep when he went to bed early, feeling more frustrated than ever that even such little activity could worsen his condition so much.

He awoke with a start in the darkness when bile began to rise up in his throat, and threw himself out of bed groaning, his body straining at the wound. He just barely made it to the toilet before he began to heave, his insides screaming in pain as his stomach emptied itself of its meager, watery contents.

His brain felt like it was hammering against his skull, his ears ringing, daggers shooting through his side at every inhale, every retch. His entire body was shivering in a cold sweat, and he barely noticed Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, holding him through it, lips brushing the side of his neck as he whispered soothingly against his skin.

John’s fingers clenched against the porcelain as another wave crashed into him, and he could see his hands shaking, barely able to hang on. He felt Sherlock pressing tightly against his side, trying to keep the wound still, but John felt his skin stretching dangerously around it as he heaved again and again, his body convulsing under Sherlock’s hands as it tried to pour out everything, though there was nothing left in him to expel.

Slowly, agonizingly, the retching slowed, quieting from full-body shudders into a fainter trembling. John gasped and panted, his head still spinning, and as he came back down from it he felt Sherlock urgently pushing his shirt up and peeling away part of the bandage to feel his stitches, his fingers sagging in relief when he found that they were still intact. He sighed and pressed a gentle kiss to John’s temple, holding himself there as the ringing subsided in John’s ears and he was able to pick out the stream of _you’re alright now, I’m here, it’s over, I’ve got you, you’re alright, you’re alright…_

John sucked in a shuddering breath, his eyes stinging with sweat or tears as he tried to steel himself against the shaking. He felt as though he’d been wrung out, his body too light, his mind full of sharp static that trembled all along his skin and down toward his heart.

“Sorry,” he was able to gasp out, his throat scratching painfully with the effort.

“Shh, it’s alright, John,” Sherlock whispered, so gentle, so soothing. “You’re alright now, I’m here, you’re alright.”

“I don’t deserve you.” John squeezed his eyes shut against the ache.

“Shh, of course you do, of _course_ you do.” His voice was hoarse, breaking with tenderness, and his hands smoothed over John’s skin, coaxing him into stillness, bringing him back.

Slowly, breath by breath, John forced himself to stop shaking; he slumped against the toilet bowl, feeling hollow, drained. Sherlock disentangled himself for a moment to get a wet cloth to run over his brow, mopping up the sweat and sick around his mouth, murmuring softly all the time. He helped him sit up and tipped a tiny glass of water into his mouth to wash out his throat, then when John’s heart had stopped racing he all but carried him back into bed, laying them down gently so that John could nestle into Sherlock’s chest. John tucked his face into his neck, breathing him in while Sherlock held him close and smoothed gently up and down his back, eased the last of the tremors out of him.

“I love you so much,” John whispered harshly into his collarbone. He was so overwhelmed by it all of a sudden that he felt his eyes begin to prickle.

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured back. “You’re alright now, John. I’m here.”

“What would I do without you?” John pressed the words into Sherlock’s skin, his voice heavy, needing Sherlock to feel them.

Sherlock replied with a kiss to John’s temple. His lips were warm, his heartbeat steady against John’s own, and his hands trembled only the slightest bit as they held John like they would never let him go.

“Sleep now, John.” He whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything John hadn’t been able to carry for him. “I’m here. I’m always right here.”

And John drifted off, wondering if maybe Sherlock needed to know that even more than he did.

***

John felt better in the morning, though still fairly dazed, and the pain was more from the soreness of the previous night’s dry heaving than any internal throbbing, which was a relief. He felt weaker than normal, his legs too shaky to stand for too long, so Sherlock settled him onto the sofa and brought him his breakfast there, tea and buttered toast that John devoured instantly, ravenous even as the residual sickliness ebbed away.

“We’ll have to get you some different painkillers,” Sherlock declared, watching him intently from where he was perched on the coffee table. “The ones they’ve got you on are hurting you more than they’re helping.”

John hummed in agreement, brushing away a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Probably just codeine now. It won’t make me sick, and I don’t think I’ll need anything stronger anymore.”

Sherlock looked John up and down for a moment, considering, then nodded. “I’ll ring the hospital and get a new prescription. The chemists will be open – will you be alright if I go now?”

“Yeah, thanks, love,” John said with relief, sinking a bit more heavily into the cushions.

“Are you sure?” The crease had reappeared between Sherlock’s eyes. “I can send Mrs. Hudson.”

“No, you’ll be quicker,” John said a bit reluctantly; tempting as it was to ask him to stay, the ache was growing harder to ignore. He leaned forward where he sat, meeting Sherlock halfway for a brief kiss. “Go.”

Sherlock nodded, leaned up to kiss his forehead too, then stood and hurried down the steps, pulling his coat on with a flourish.

John stared at the empty doorway for a while after he left. Conflicting emotions were crowding into his heart – relief, affection, concern, anxiety – all vying for attention and making him reel with confusion. He wished he didn’t feel so _useless_ all the time; it was as if every part of his body was trying to distract him with pain, preventing him from figuring out what to do.

After a moment, far too soon for it to be a coincidence, Mrs. Hudson appeared and began bustling about in the kitchen. Her usual cheeriness filled the room and almost managed to make John let go of the apprehension clouding over his mind, though as she rummaged around (clearing away God knows what, Sherlock kept everything immaculate these days), he wondered if maybe she could help him for a different reason than what she’d been sent up for.

“…and heaven knows a hip’s got nothing on you’ve been through, John, and _my_ husband wasn’t anywhere _near_ as attentive–”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, John?” She poked her head out of the kitchen, grinning broadly with a tea towel in her hand.

John considered his question carefully before he asked it. “How… _is_ Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson?”

She hesitated for a moment, then chuckled briefly. “Well, you’d know better than I would, wouldn’t you? He hardly lets you out of his sight!”

“No, I mean–” John sucked in a quiet breath and expelled it, suddenly afraid of the answer. “How is he when he’s not around me? When I’m asleep, or when he comes down to you for help?”

Mrs. Hudson’s face fell, and her eyes filled with something like guilt, as if she’d betrayed something she’d been supposed to keep secret. John was suddenly torn between relief that she was so much worse at hiding what she was thinking than Sherlock was, and the growing dread at the centre of his stomach that felt even worse than the nausea.

“He’s…” Mrs. Hudson bit her lip, searching for the right term. “He’s…shaken, John.”

John blinked, temporarily stunned, trying to process this. “From what happened? Still?”

“Yes, John, still,” she replied, and John thought he detected a note of exasperation in her voice. “It’s not something you just let go of when you know everything’s going to be alright.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” John’s mind was whirling, trying to reconcile the spirited, unfaltering man who’d been tending to him for weeks with one who could still be reeling from what had happened to _him_. “He’s helping me, isn’t he? I mean, I know he was worried, but–”

“He was more than worried, John.” Mrs. Hudson was suddenly firm, her hands clenched nervously around the tea towel. “You didn’t see him in that A&E he was an absolute _wreck_.”

Her eyes immediately clouded over with guilt again, and John felt something other than bile rise up in his throat.

“Really?” He asked; his voice was quieter than he’d planned. “It was that bad?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, her lips pressed into a firm line.

“We were as worried about him as we were about you,” she admitted, softly. “Do you know how much it would have killed him to lose you, John? Just the _possibility_ of it was almost enough.”

John cast his eyes down, his head spinning, leaping back to all those moments of uncertainty he’d caught in Sherlock’s eyes, back to that hospital bed where they’d fallen apart together and held each other through what had almost happened, back to a different hospital room and a different ambulance years ago where a monitor had nearly flatlined and John’s heart had shattered as he’d whispered _Sherlock…we’re losing you…_

“Yeah,” John nodded. The word came out as a hoarse whisper. “Yeah, I know.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled sympathetically, but there was a hint of sadness in there too that John didn’t miss.

“He’s doing his best, you know,” she said, and John opened his mouth to say the he _did_ know, of course he did, but she carried on before he could speak. “Just give him time. He’ll come round.”

John hesitated, then sighed low in his chest, nodding. Mrs. Hudson took all of two seconds to regain the thread of what she’d been saying earlier, and John half-listened as he watched her puttering around, straightening up perfectly aligned books and smoothing away non-existent dust, while he sat and sipped quietly at his steadily cooling tea and pictured Sherlock’s pained concern in his mind’s eye, unable to think of a single thing he could do to help him.

***

The new drugs were much better, and the pain slowly lessened as the days blurred into one another. John ate more regularly, and felt stronger and stronger – his vomiting episode was shaping up to be the lowest point of his recovery, and he felt closer to normal than ever. That didn’t stop Sherlock from fussing though, and John wondered how he even managed to find things to fix for John when there was less and less that John couldn’t do on his own. Still, whatever John needed, any time he needed something tended to, Sherlock was there to help him, apparently unaware that it had begun to worry John more than it reassured him.

His commitment never wavered, only the barest cracks of insecurity breaking through his mask of confidence where John almost couldn’t see them. But every time John caught a shadow of doubt in his face, or a miniscule hesitation in a usually steady hand, it made something clench around his heart, leaving him grasping for something comforting to say or do and always coming up empty.

“You can leave it till tomorrow, love, it’s fine,” John called to him from the sofa. The sun had long since gone down, and Sherlock had just jumped up from where they’d been comfortably snuggled watching the evening news.

“Best not.” Sherlock sent back from the kitchen, over the sound of running water. John sighed; he’d never thought he’d yearn for the days when Sherlock neglected the washing-up for weeks at a time.

“Won’t be a moment, and then we’ll get you into bed,” he carried on. John couldn’t hear any traces of doubt through his high spirits, but then, John apparently couldn’t trust himself when it came to stuff like that.

“We don’t have to, I’m not really tired yet,” John said, though his words were undermined by his face splitting into a wide yawn at that exact moment. He scowled, knowing Sherlock had heard.

“Right, of course not,” Sherlock smirked back. He came back into the sitting room, extended his hand to John. “Come on, old man, you’re knackered.”

John sighed again, smiling as he took it. Sherlock was right – he’d stayed awake and mostly alert since that morning, and though he was pleased he’d gotten to enjoy so much of the day, it had still taken more out of him than he’d have liked to admit. Sherlock pulled him up to standing, and John let himself be led to the bedroom by Sherlock’s hand resting gently at the small of his back. Always supporting him. Always guiding him.

He knew better than to hope that Sherlock would let anything happen once they’d reached the bedroom, and tired as he was, John still felt a breath of disappointment leave his lungs. So he sat on the bed, let Sherlock help him undress and tugged on the pajamas that he offered him, and enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock’s reverent hands across his bare skin, even as it made him feel more like an invalid than ever. 

“Painkillers tonight? Or can you sleep without them?” Sherlock’s fingers dipped under the hem of his shirt briefly as he tugged it down, sending warmth spreading up through John’s chest.

“I think I’ll be fine,” John said, softly. “I’ll probably go straight to sleep, honestly.”

“Alright.” Sherlock paused for a moment, then stood up stiffly. “I’ll get some to keep by the bedside, just in case.”

“Oh,” John said, suddenly feeling numb from the distance between them. “Thank you.”

“Maybe an extra blanket, too,” Sherlock went on, eyeing the window that was slightly ajar and letting in a cool draft. He crossed the room briefly and shut it, then headed for the door again. “Can’t have you catching cold, now, can we?”

“Sherlock…” John said suddenly; his heart had lodged in his throat.

Sherlock turned around, one hand on the doorframe, his eyes searching John’s. “Was there something else?”

John stared for a moment, feeling it stretch out into a silent eternity as he took in Sherlock’s inquisitive expression, then swallowed, pursing his lips. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d been about to ask, but the idea of asking _anything_ further of the man who’d already given him everything John could conceivably need, everything Sherlock seemed capable of giving, felt akin to churlishness – like he’d be spitting on everything Sherlock had done for him all this time, degrading it into nothing.

What he really wanted to say was _I miss you_ , but how was that possible, when Sherlock had never left his side? When Sherlock had been more caring, more affectionate, more tender with him than John could have ever felt he deserved? How could he ever make Sherlock feel like what he’d done wasn’t enough – like _Sherlock_ wasn’t enough?

“No.” John said finally, shaking his head and trying to smile. “Nothing.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment longer, his eyes raking over him for a moment, and John fought the urge to duck his head in shame. Eventually Sherlock nodded once, his lips twitching up into an obviously hollow smile, and he swept out through the door, leaving John alone in the bedroom with an ache in his chest deeper than any knife could carve.

***

The next morning found John awake early, earlier even than Sherlock, and he rolled over carefully so as not to wake him. He winced only the tiniest bit as he settled himself onto his wounded side and scanned Sherlock’s face in the shadows; his brow smoothed of the day’s worries, his eyelids fluttering with the hint of a dream, his sleep-mussed curls tumbling softly over his temples. 

John inched his hand closer in the space between them, but didn’t touch; morning would come soon, and John couldn’t rob him of the only peace he’d seen on him in far too long. His fingers itched, his entire body resisting that instinctive tug toward Sherlock’s warmth, but John kept himself still. Kept himself at the same arm’s length Sherlock had been keeping him emotionally, and wondered if Sherlock felt that same emptiness in his own heart, that agony of being so close but still unable, still unwilling to make that final reach.

He shut his eyes against it, and must have dozed off again, because suddenly light was streaming through the window and Sherlock was there with his usual kiss, ready to pull him into the bathroom with a motion now familiar as a well-practiced dance.

John followed, sat, let Sherlock peel off his shirt and bandage. Took in his easy smile and bright eyes and almost made himself believe that they were genuine.

“They’re healing well,” Sherlock said, beaming happily. His fingers brushed over the rough, knotted skin, the stitches barely detectable among the scar tissue. “Really well.”

“Told you,” John grinned back, trying not to be too wary of the hope rising in his heart. “I don’t think I’ll need the bandage anymore.”

He was relieved that Sherlock’s eyes didn’t falter as he appraised the wound, satisfied. “Quite right,” Sherlock said quietly, and there was a matching confidence in his expression as he cleaned around the stitches, still so gentle, so careful.

“We’ll be back to serial killers by the time the week is out, at this rate,” John quipped.

“ _Patience_ , John,” Sherlock returned, but he was laughing through his mock-sternness, and John’s heart grew lighter. “You’re still far from fully recovered. You could still hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”

“I know, I know, we’ll be taking it easy for a while yet.” John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s shoulders, smiling softly. “But I’m getting better.”

“You are.” Sherlock bit his lip, suppressing a wide, relieved grin. John wanted to kiss it out of him, pull it to the surface.

“You got me better,” John murmured. He swallowed down the emotion building at the back of his throat. “You fixed me.”

Sherlock huffed out the barest breath of a laugh.

“Not _quite_ , John.” He didn’t look up at him as he said it, but John swore he saw something sparkle in those brilliant blue eyes. Something John hadn’t yet seen, or maybe something Sherlock hadn’t been able to say.

He smoothed over the stiches one more time, then leaned in to kiss right above them, hovering close to John’s heart. He held himself there for only a little bit longer than usual, breathing only a little bit heavier against John’s chest, but John felt the difference as surely as if Sherlock had etched in into his skin; he held Sherlock against him with some fitful hope that maybe he could keep him from slipping back again, and marveled at how so intimate a touch could all the same feel so distant.

***

He grew stronger still, as surely as night followed day, and to John’s great delight the headaches disappeared completely and with the help of the painkillers the wound faded into a distant echo most of the time. As long as he didn’t move too quickly or put pressure on it for too long, he could almost forget about it entirely. It was still tender, the stitches still delicate, but a few nights later John found himself sitting in his chair with a book on his lap and the stars twinkling outside, feeling like the world might finally be on the way to righting itself.

Sherlock stood at the far window, violin tucked under his chin, working his way through some sonata that John vaguely recognized. The sound was full and peaceful, clear yet soothing, and John let it wrap around him as it filled the room; it was calming background to his novel, which on its own was mediocre at best, and when it inevitably failed to hold his interest he let his eyes settle on Sherlock, watching his fingers gliding across the wood, his entire body swaying slightly with the movement of his arms as he pulled the song from the instrument.

The notes trembled through the air, highs and lows following each other in elegant crescendos. The pitch was bright, but Sherlock played slowly and it felt slightly melancholy, the joyful trills tempered by the pace, its pretty refrain reigned carefully into submission.

It was beautiful. _Sherlock_ was beautiful, eyes closed as he faced out into the night, drawing out each note with gentle swipes of his bow. The music flowed through him, poured out of him with every graceful, almost sensual movement; he folded himself into it and drew himself out again, and in every touch to those delicate strings, John felt as if he were hearing the entirety of Sherlock’s soul in those notes – like he was gathering it up and releasing it for John to hold.

Something painful was suddenly pushing up against the roof of John’s mouth, and he blinked away the wetness prickling behind his eyes before it could leak out. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out quietly, steadying himself.

He couldn’t bear this anymore. He couldn’t bear to see Sherlock across the room like this but not really _see_ him – to only see the strength and support and unwavering dedication, while Sherlock shrouded away the rest of himself for John’s sake. He couldn’t bear to know how much fear was walled up behind that mask, secreted away in his heart where John couldn’t touch it. He couldn’t bear to see Sherlock hold himself apart from John, unwilling to hold him too tightly or even touch him too intimately – how long had it been now? Three weeks? More than that? John wasn’t sure they’d _ever_ gone this long – for fear he’d shatter under his hands.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to face these things _together_. And Sherlock knew that, John knew he did. It was why he’d thrown himself into his caretaker role so faithfully – it was the natural thing to do, because he was always there for John, no matter how difficult things got, no matter how dire circumstances looked. Sherlock would always be there to help him, to support him through anything, as much because Sherlock needed it as John did. Because Sherlock needed him.

But John needed him, too. He needed his husband. He needed every part of the man he loved, not just the parts that could help him through this. He needed every beat of his heart, every flicker of worry in his eyes, every gentle, trembling touch of his worshipful fingers. He needed _Sherlock_.

John closed his book quietly and stood up from his chair, crossing the room to where Sherlock was still channeling his sonata. Softly, tenderly, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle, pressing his chest to his back, and felt the music flow through them both, followed his movements and let them rock together.

Sherlock leaned back into him just a bit as he dragged his bow across the last refrain. John closed his eyes against his shoulder, smiling a little, feeling the soft, beautiful notes echo through the space around them. Comforting them.

Sherlock finished the song, letting the final note ring out long and clear. John inhaled deeply, took in the sharp tang of rosin blended with the airy softness of Sherlock’s shampoo, let it wash over him like a gentle, soothing breeze.

“Amazing,” he murmured into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed noncommittally, setting the violin in its case on the table. “One of Elgar’s more understated works, perhaps, but quite obviously much the better for it.”

“You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant,” John replied, a hint of laughter underlying the sincerity in his voice.

Sherlock exhaled a miniscule breath of a chuckle. He brought one of his hands up to cover John’s where it rested against his chest.

“What do you need?” he asked, softly.

John pulled him even closer, brushed his lips against the side of his neck.

“You.”

He felt more than he heard Sherlock’s quiet intake of breath. Sherlock swallowed heavily, tilting his head back the tiniest bit, seemingly involuntarily.

“John,” he whispered; his voice was caught between caution and longing as he leaned into John kissing slowly up his neck – gentle, closed-mouth kisses, working his way from the dip of his collarbone up the long length toward his jaw.

John felt Sherlock’s pulse quicken slightly underneath his lips, underneath their joined hands over Sherlock’s heart. He was already half-hard against Sherlock’s thigh, and sighed a bit when he pulled Sherlock toward him with the arm snaked around his waist.

Sherlock let out a shaky exhale, swallowing again and dropping his head; his spine was already stiffening, preparing to move away.

“You’re not well,” he muttered.

“I’m well enough,” John whispered back, lips seeking out Sherlock’s skin again.

“You…can’t know that.” Sherlock’s words were hoarse, bitten off. “You could still be at risk…exerting yourself too much. You…” He let out a breathy moan as John nipped gently below his ear. “You could…tear your stitches, you could – _oh_ – bleed internally…”

“We’ll just have to go slow then, won’t we?” John smoothed a hand up Sherlock’s side, loving the familiar way he shivered under his touch.

“You’d still be taking a chance, John.” Urgency was rising in Sherlock’s voice now. “Even…even at this stage, it’s still not advisable–”

“ _Sherlock_.”

The heavy sound of his name on John’s lips made Sherlock stop.

John exhaled shakily; the sound was muffled by the collar of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Please, love.” He made no effort to keep the roughness out of his voice – that earnest plea he’d been dying to let out. “Please. Please don’t push me out.”

The thing gathering in John’s throat was threatening to overwhelm him now, and he almost wanted to let it.

“John…”

“You don’t have to do this alone, Sherlock.” John laced his fingers with Sherlock’s, breathing him in deeply. “I’m here. I’m still here. I’m here, love, I’m not going anywhere, don’t you see? I’m here, right here, and I still need you, Sherlock, please…”

A strangled, desperate sound escaped Sherlock’s lips, and he clutched at John’s hand - he was trembling faintly in his grip.

John pulled in another shuddering breath, eased himself back. He needed to be steady now; he owed Sherlock that much.

“I know you’re scared,” he went on, more slowly. “I know what this must have been like, and I’m sorry – I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner, I’m so sorry.” He pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s skin, feeling him turn into the contact. “But Sherlock, sweetheart, you don’t have to worry anymore.”

Sherlock’s breathing was ragged; John could almost see him shutting his eyes against everything, and he dragged his hand back down toward his hip, rubbing soothing circles there.

“I’m here. I’m here with you, and I’m alright.” John’s voice grew stronger with every word, the truth of them buoying him up. “It’s over now, the danger’s passed, you can let go. Please, Sherlock, let go now.”

Sherlock let out a long, heavy sigh. He’d stopped trembling, and his heartbeat was elevated, beating through him and echoing in John’s chest, but stable.

He turned in John’s arms to look at him, hands snaking around his torso and splaying protectively across his back. His eyes were dry, but they shone with something fierce and pained as they searched John’s, brow creased and jaw set, as if seeking evidence to back up John’s reassurances. 

“Where are you in there?” John barely breathed. His eyes bored into Sherlock’s in turn, pleading. “Come back, Sherlock, please.” That same heaviness rose up in his throat again, and he swallowed it down. “Come back to me.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell closed, and John could see everything he’d been holding back written in the lines of his face. His heart constricted in his chest, and he pushed a hand up to thread through the curls at the nape of his neck, needing Sherlock to feel him, needing him to _know_.

When his eyes opened again, there were depths in them that John had never seen, depths that he couldn’t even begin to wade through. Sherlock sucked in another harsh breath and exhaled it, lowly.

“You almost died, John,” he whispered, evenly, but the fear running through it was palpable – there was no hiding it.

“I know,” John murmured back. It was all he could say.

“You disappeared,” he said again, and now his voice was breaking. “I didn’t know – I couldn’t reach you…”

“I know, I know,” John whispered back urgently. “But I’m _here now_ , Sherlock. Look at me, can you see me? Can you feel me? I’m _here_ , and I’m not going anywhere, do you understand?”

Sherlock let out another ragged gasp, pursing his lips against it.

“I’m _alive_ , Sherlock. And that’s because of you – you saved me, you brought me back. You took care of me.” John offered him a weak smile, his heart soaring when he saw some of the tension in Sherlock’s brow release in return. “You were with me through everything – even when I was the world’s most awful patient, you stayed with me.”

Something like a laugh was pulled out of Sherlock’s throat, his face twisting into a smile in spite of himself. John thrilled at the sight, and he smoothed his hand down Sherlock’s back, holding him firmly.

“You weren’t awful,” Sherlock said weakly.

“Yes, I was,” John returned. “You were just too good to notice.”

Sherlock let out another quiet breath of laughter, less shaky this time; the lines of his brow weren’t as deep anymore, and John pulled him in a tiny bit more, craving that closeness, hoping to smooth the rest of them away.

“You gave me everything I needed,” John said, his voice quiet, earnest. “Absolutely everything, and I’m so grateful, love.” The heavy weight of his words was settling slowly in his chest, pushing up against his lungs. “But what I need, right now…” he paused for just a moment, catching his breath, “…is for you to take me to bed.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched again, his pupils dilating with unmistakable yearning. He worried the crease of his brow for only a moment before leaning in slightly, his hand moving upward to cup John’s face gently, holding him steady. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, hushed, a glint of worry still sparkling in his irises.

John felt his eyes soften – the way only Sherlock could make them do – and he nodded. “Yes.”

He held Sherlock under his fingertips, felt his heartbeat kick up a notch, reverberating through his skin. John needed him like a physical ache, a desperate tug in his chest, a magnetic pull, but the last ghost of hesitation remained behind Sherlock’s eyes, and John leaned in until he could feel Sherlock’s breath across his face.

“I don’t need the things you can do for me right now, Sherlock,” he rasped out, brokenly. “I just need _you_.”

And that, _that_ was it. Sherlock pulled them together and kissed him deeply, slowly but with a desperate need so tangible, so real it made John sink into him. Sherlock pushed his tongue past John’s lips, holding him close, so close by his grip across John’s back, and John would have gladly buried himself in him, burrowed into Sherlock’s chest and let himself be held, kept safe and warm forever, and he knew without a doubt that Sherlock would let him.

He angled his face to pull him in even deeper, and the kiss was almost overwhelming in its intensity but John didn’t care, because he could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat across his own skin and breathe every breath from his lungs, because he could feel the depths of love and devotion and vulnerability in every press of his lips, because Sherlock was holding him and protecting him and _wanting_ him and it felt like a cool breeze through stale air, like a soft blanket against bare skin, like a flickering fire pushing away the chilly darkness. It felt like coming home.

“Okay,” Sherlock whispered, breaking off the kiss for just a moment to breathe deeply in the space between them, nodding once. “Okay.”

And then he was kissing him again, that quiet hunger never leaving his movements, as he gently took John’s hands and led him toward the bedroom.

He pulled him close again after he’d shut the door gently, threading his arms around John’s waist and holding him there, lips seeking out John’s with kisses so gentle, so full of tenderness that they made John want to cry out with feeling. Instead he kissed him back, pouring every fiber of his soul back into Sherlock, his heart swelling with emotion when he felt Sherlock giving himself in equal measure.

Sherlock’s hands tugged gently at John’s shirt, untucking it and undoing the buttons, and there was no more hesitation lurking underneath his fingertips. There was no more wariness in his movements, just a raw intensity of devotion, and John felt it in the way he slowly pushed his shirt off his shoulders with careful movements, the way he held John gently by the waist with one hand as he undid his belt with the other. That same reassurance that had always been there, just now with more heartfelt earnestness than ever, and John poured even more quiet passion into their kisses, his eyes prickling with the realization that even now, even here, Sherlock was going to take care of him.

John stepped out of his jeans and followed Sherlock’s hands that guided him gently to lie down on the bed. Sherlock was kissing him again before John could even reach for him, climbing over and settling himself carefully on top on John, pressing their chests together and letting his weight settle down against him, surround him like he knew John needed. John’s hands wrapped around his back to pull him closer, closer still, and he opened his mouth under Sherlock’s to let him take whatever he needed, anything John had to give.

They kissed for a long moment, Sherlock nipping gently at John’s lips before breaking off with a quiet breath, then shifting upward and pressing his lips to John’s right temple, right next to his hairline. John had to wonder only for a moment what he was doing before sucking in a gasp, his fingers clutching at the material of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock moved down from the faded bonfire scars to kiss the knotted skin at John’s shoulder, as he’d done so many times before – just as John had kissed up and down the jagged lines on Sherlock’s back, the tiny dark pinprick at the centre of his chest, the faded scars of old track marks on the pale skin of his forearms. Sherlock pressed his lips softly to the old wound, so desperately tender that John had to swallow down the lump that risen suddenly in his throat, before moving down John’s body to the new one, and here his lips began to quiver, his breath coming in unsteady hitches against John’s skin. Gently, so gently, he pressed soft kisses to every inch of scar tissue, every delicate stitch, and then Sherlock wrapped his arms underneath John’s torso, holding him close, holding his lips firmly against the place where John’s life – and by extension, Sherlock’s – had been sewn back together again.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered against the wound. “More than anything. I love you. Please…” His voice was shaking heavily, like a sob. “Please know that.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” John choked out a shattered gasp of breath; the prickle behind his eyes flared up even stronger. “Of _course_ I know that. I know it every day. Always.” He couldn’t stop his voice from breaking.

Sherlock closed his eyes against John’s middle. “I wish I could protect you.”

“You have,” John whispered, desperately. “You do. Oh Sherlock, you always do.” John tugged lightly at the base of Sherlock’s skull, and Sherlock obediently came back up to capture his lips again, kissing him with a hard desperation that held all of his built up doubts, all his fears that he’d been carrying alone; John took them all, drew them out, and they shouldered the weight together so that Sherlock could let them go.

“You save me every single day, don’t you know that?” John murmured, pulling back to search deeply through Sherlock’s fathomless gaze. “Just by being with me, you save me. You’ve always done, since the very beginning.”

Sherlock sighed softly; his hand came forward to cup John’s jaw, his thumb stroking tenderly over his cheek.

“But what if that’s not enough?” His voice was quiet, but the depths of his worries rang out sharply through his words. “What if one day something happens that I can’t fix, or there’s a puzzle that I can’t solve?” His eyes shone as they bored into John’s with quiet melancholy. “What if you need me and I fail you?” 

“You could never, _ever_ fail me, Sherlock.” John shook his head fiercely. “Not ever.”

Sherlock cast his eyes down, shaking his head, but John drew him back with an urgent hand at the nape of his neck.

“You won’t ever fail me as long as you’re here. We’ve never failed when we’re together.” He pushed his hand up to stroke though Sherlock’s curls, felt him lean into the touch. “And we never will, because we’re so much _stronger_ when we’re together, love. You know that.”

Sherlock blinked back the wetness in his eyes, exhaling unevenly.

“As long as I’ve got you, nothing can hurt me.” John said softly. “But I need _all_ of you, Sherlock. All the time.” He tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist, holding him firm. “Alright?”

Sherlock exhaled quietly, the ghost of a smile pulling at his downturned lips. “Alright.” 

John offered one of his own, and pulled Sherlock close enough so that their noses brushed. “I don’t ever want you to hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock breathed, a rough, wrecked sound.

“No, don’t apologize,” John whispered. His eyes might have been shining now, too. “Don’t ever apologize for loving me.”

A low sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips as he leaned in to kiss John again. Desperate, tender and slow, he pressed in with the softest of movements, angling his face gently as John invited him in. Quiet breaths mingled with the smooth glide of his lips, his lashes brushing along John’s cheek, his tongue warm and wet as it explored, feeling him, tasting him.

John sighed again as he pulled him in deeper, deeper still. His fingers dipped under the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, dragged across pale, smooth skin, traced the sharp lines of his collarbones. They trailed down the fabric and began undoing the buttons, and Sherlock’s fingers quickly joined them to help. He made quick work of it, tossing the shirt to the side, then moved on to his trousers, pulling at the zip and efficiently shucking them off and throwing them in the same direction.

John let his hands roam along the expanse of Sherlock’s back, smoothing up the planes of his hard, taut muscles. He couldn’t get enough; he felt like he was drinking him in, pulling in his essence through touch alone, the warmth of Sherlock’s body flowing through his veins, building him up, strengthening him. He let his touch wander further south, dipping into the small of his back, pulling a soft moan from Sherlock’s mouth into his.

Sherlock sank deeper into John; their chests were pressed together, heartbeats almost synchronized. John pulled him close by his grip around his hips, and suddenly Sherlock’s cock was pressing insistently on the inside of John’s thigh, hot and full through the layers of remaining fabric, and John let out a deep moan from the centre of his chest, the low coil of arousal in his abdomen flaring up, demanding _more_.

“How…” Sherlock broke from John’s lips with a low gasp. “How do you want me?” He blinked his eyes open; his pupils were blown wide. “Like this, or…?”

“Yeah,” John breathed, low and rough with arousal. His hands skimmed over the smooth silk of Sherlock’s pants, the luscious curve of his arse, urging him closer. “Yeah, love.”

Sherlock’s breath ghosted over his lips, warm and tantalizing, his eyes half-lidded and wanting.

“You’re sure it’ll be alright?” He whispered, and his voice was so deep and rich it felt like liquid fire pooling in John’s chest.

“Yeah,” John murmured again, barely a breath this time. He tilted his chin up for another kiss, nipping sweetly at Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Just...slowly, okay?”

His words were almost a plea, whispered roughly into Sherlock’s lips. It wasn’t just because of the wound that he needed it slow. He wanted to _feel_ Sherlock, to savour every brush of contact, each reverent touch and kiss and desperate whisper; he wanted to feel every flicker, every breath as Sherlock moved tenderly inside him, and he wanted it to _last._

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock breathed. His long, beautiful fingers danced lightly over John’s cheek as he hovered over him, breathing him in, lashes fluttering softly as his lips brushed over John’s, the barely-there kiss sending shivers coursing down towards John’s spine.

“You’ll tell me if anything starts to hurt?” Sherlock murmured; John could feel every word as his breath whispered across his skin. “Or if you need to stop?”

John nodded, though he had no intention of letting Sherlock stop for any reason. He leaned up to meet his lips again, sweeping his tongue lightly along the seam before delving in, coaxing a low moan out of him that made John melt into the contact surrounding him at all angles.

The hand cradling John’s jaw pushed back to thread through his hair as Sherlock angled himself gently to kiss him with more intensity. His tongue swirled along the edge of John’s bottom lip, almost teasing, and John could hear his own breath coming in shorter, quicker. Sherlock added a bit of pressure, no teeth, but then gently sucked the lip between his own and John felt a long, deep groan bubble up in the back of his throat, letting it out in a harsh rush of air in the scant space between them.

He felt the corner of Sherlock’s lip twitch upward microscopically. The hand not stroking through his hair was smoothing gently down his chest, down towards his hips, tracing the line of his pelvis down to his waistband. John shifted a little to allow him better access, but Sherlock was taking his time, fingers dipping gently in and out of his pants as he rubbed soothing circles along his hips.

“You are so incredible,” he whispered, planting a final kiss on John’s bottom lip, then angled his face to press a soft kiss at the cleft of his chin. His touches drifted downward, feather-light brushes of his fingers wandering down towards John’s inner thigh.

“You are,” John whispered back. He dragged his arms up to cross over Sherlock’s back, holding on tight.

“I mean it, John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but an undercurrent of tender urgency sprang up in his words as he kissed at John’s lower jaw. “You were stabbed and left bleeding out in a shoddy alleyway, and you still won.” His thumb smoothed gently over John’s cheek, and he moved plant a kiss there in its wake. “He nearly killed you, and you still fought your way back.”

“I had to.” John tried to smile as he said it, but suddenly felt his lips wobbling a bit. “You were waiting for me.”

He felt Sherlock swallow heavily as he laid kisses on John’s temple, on his fluttering eyelids. “You were so brave,” he whispered, thickly. “So brave, so strong…”

“ _You_ made me strong,” John insisted, something heavy muffling the words in his throat as his hands clutched tightly at Sherlock’s sides.

Sherlock’s fingers were now carding gently through the soft hair at the base of John’s cock. He dragged his lips down John’s cheek, stopped to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his nose, then found his mouth again, kissing softly at the top lip, then the bottom, then gently pushing back in between with a deeper, firmer caress.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. The heat of his mouth drew John in again and again, making him tremble in Sherlock’s grip. “My wonderful, brave, brilliant John.”

“Oh, _God,_ love…”

He couldn’t tell if the gasp that tumbled out of his lips was from the tenderness in Sherlock’s words, or the fact that his beautiful violinist’s fingers had suddenly wrapped themselves around the base of his cock, smoothing over him gently.

He followed Sherlock’s mouth as he shifted slightly above him, giving himself room to stroke John slowly from base to tip. A desperate little moan pushed its way out of John’s throat as Sherlock thumbed over the slit, still so slowly, and John felt his hips rise up instinctively into the touch, craving _more_ and _now_.

Sherlock took the opportunity to tug him up slightly and push the pants down off his hips, throwing them aside and leaving John fully nude before him; completely bare, vulnerable, trusting. The heat in John’s abdomen flared up through his chest now, wrapping itself warmly around his heart – it was here that John felt safe, always, knowing Sherlock was protecting him, keeping him happy, adoring him.

Sherlock took him in hand once more, John’s flushed cock heavy in those perfect hands, and began to stroke again – long, reverent pulls, fingers trailing over every ridge and slow enough to keep the fire in John’s belly pooling hot without flaring up. He thumbed the head gently, swirling his fingers around the tip in the way that John loved, and adding a bit of a twist on the upstroke that had soon had him keening quietly into Sherlock’s mouth, hips lifting into every tender caress.

“Sherlock… _oh,_ Sherlock…” John’s voice came in a harsh whisper, his mind already reeling to keep up.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, and that _gorgeous_ baritone rumble from low in his chest made electricity spark across John’s skin at every point they were touching. “Good?”

“Yeah, love.” John was all but panting now. “It’s ama- oh _God,_ Sherlock…”

Sherlock hand had suddenly tightened as he stroked more sharply downward, smearing the liquid pooling at the tip along his fingers to ease his way, and the motion sent waves of pleasure coursing up along John’s spine, his hips stuttering up into the contact.

“Oh, oh love…” John whined; he barely knew what he was saying anymore. He was dimly aware that his legs had fallen open, that he was clutching at Sherlock’s back and gasping breathlessly against his lips, but his entire body seemed to be aware of only the aching, desperate _need_ for Sherlock, as close as possible, nothing between them but their mingling sweat and pounding heartbeats.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was just as raspy, his breath just as heavy. “John…”

“ _Sherlock_ …” His name sounded like a prayer in John’s desperate voice. “Darling, please…please…”

Sherlock nodded once, quickly, and kissed him deeply once more, his thumb brushing one more time down his cheek as his other hand gave his cock one last deliberate stroke. John relaxed his grip on Sherlock’s back reluctantly to let him reach for the bedside drawer and fumble for the bottle of lube, his neck and chest flushed a sinful shade of pink and his plump lips fallen open, breathing evenly, heavily.

“Get these off,” John whispered, tugging at the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, tented sharply at the front.

“Impatient,” Sherlock murmured back, a shadow of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“I need you,” John replied, suddenly quiet. He couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed about the rawness in his voice, or the tiny tremor in his hands as he slipped Sherlock’s pants down his thighs, freeing his gorgeous, flushed cock.

Sherlock grabbed at the material and pushed them all the way off, throwing them to the side and lowering himself back over John. “I’m here,” he murmured, softly, deeply, and he cradled John’s face in one hand as he kissed him, pouring all of himself from his lips into John’s.

John drew him in for one intense moment, then broke off with a series of smaller, chaste kisses to his lower lip, hoping to urge him forward a little. Sherlock took the hint, and sat back a bit to snap open the bottle and slick his fingers liberally; his eyes never left John’s, something unfathomably tender in them that knocked the remaining breath from John’s lungs.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, gently. His finger traced lightly down John’s perineum, swirling around his entrance and sending a shiver coursing up through John’s body.

“Yeah,” John breathed. He wasn’t sure he could say anything else just now; just that whisper of a touch made his skin tingle in anticipation. He settled his hands on Sherlock’s broad shoulders, the warmth of him grounding John, giving him something to hold on to. 

Sherlock held his gaze, and it felt solid and sure, a calming counterpoint to the rush of sensation that overtook him as Sherlock’s finger pushed inside; slowly, oh so slowly, working his way up to the first knuckle, then the second, the gentle pressure warming John’s very core. He let out a slow exhale, luxuriating in the feeling.

“Come on, love,” John whispered imploringly. He shifted his hips to take in more, urging those long slender fingers to touch all the places within him where he’d been aching for Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded; his other hand was cradling the back of John’s neck, brushing through the coarse fringe there, the touch as slow and as tender as the way his finger massaged lightly within John, coaxing him into soft little whimpers of pleasure.

“Oh, Sherlock, please…” And now John’s eyelids were fluttering, the desire to throw his head back and get lost in the sensations warring with his need to see Sherlock, to look into his eyes as he stroked long and deep within him, to let that heart-stopping adoration shining out of him like the sun envelop him, hold him tight. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to hang on as long as he could before he floated away on a sea of desire.

Sherlock drew his finger halfway out, and John nearly cried out at the loss before a second one was teasing at his entrance alongside the first, and as it breached him even more slowly John let out a high-pitched moan and let his eyes slide shut, seeing stars flickering behind his lids.

“More, Sherlock, please, I need-” His voice caught as Sherlock’s second finger slid all the way in, and he began lightly pumping them in and out, stroking at John’s very center.

“I know.” Sherlock replied by tilting John’s head back for a soft kiss, then pulled off and kissed the corner of his mouth with a gentle smile.

He continued stroking, stoking the white-hot flame in John’s abdomen and making it crackle up to his chest, lighting him up from the inside. He worked John open torturously slowly, spreading his fingers apart gradually with every stroke until he could scissor them properly, and each delicate movement made John gasp and tremble until he was a desperate writhing mess beneath him.

“Love, please, that’s – oh, God – I need you, Sherlock, please…”

“You have me.” Sherlock’s breath was warm against John’s cheek, sweet with feeling. “I’m here, you’ll always have me.”

“Sweetheart, please, I need – _oh, God!_ ”

John cried out as Sherlock’s fingers crooked inside him, brushing just so against his prostate and sending a jolt of pleasure through him like an earth-shattering thunderclap. John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s shoulders, and he was _whimpering_ now, desperate soft sounds escaping from his throat as he arched into Sherlock’s fingers.

“Come on, love, come on.” His voice was high-pitched and frantic.

“Shh, breathe, John.” Sherlock blinked warmly, his eyes full of tender concern.

“I’m ready, Sherlock, please…” John moaned as Sherlock stroked over that spot again, setting his nerve endings alight. “Now, please…”

“Not quite,” Sherlock murmured sweetly over John’s lips, dipping in for a quick kiss, two, three, as he kept working John open. “Slowly, remember?”

“Love, _please_ , that’s good enough.” John was aware that he was babbling, and somehow couldn’t have cared less. “I’m ready, Sherlock, please come _on_ …”

Sherlock shook his head, a hard, determined edge suddenly lining his brow. “I won’t hurt you, John.”

John quieted suddenly. His eyes blinked open and he fought to even out his breath, as Sherlock’s words whirled around his desire-clouded mind before coming to a halt. The words that weren’t just a refusal, but a vow and a reassurance and a declaration all wrapped up into one, and John felt his breath hitch again, not with arousal this time, as he held the steadfast gaze of the man who loved him.

He couldn’t do anything but pull him down by the nape for another bone-deep kiss, licking into his mouth with a slow, desperate urgency, and he knew Sherlock could feel the tangle of emotions coming through in each of his movements – gratitude, wonder, longing, _trust_ – could taste them in every sweet slide of those soft lips against his own.

“I love you,” John breathed, barely a sound; a sharp, tight feeling around his heart had stolen his voice away, but the whisper echoed through both of their skins, louder than anything. 

He felt more than he saw Sherlock’s tiny answering grin, just before his other senses were swept away completely as Sherlock’s third finger began to breach him. Sparks of sensation shot up from the touch and alighted throughout his body, and somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of throwing his head back and moaning.

Sherlock dipped his head to catch them with feather-light kisses. “Alright?”

“Yeah…” John managed in a low whine. His hips were bearing down onto Sherlock’s fingers seemingly of their own accord. “Love…”

But Sherlock knew, and with gentle worshipful hands he worked John open, all the while continuing to dip in for gentle nips to John’s lips, drawing him out, guiding him through it.

“You’re amazing,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes flickering over him in unconcealed awe. “God, look at you…look at you…”

John could only huff out a harsh gasp as Sherlock stroked over his prostate again, his vision going white.

“…perfect.” Sherlock’s voice was as light as the whisper of his thumb stroking over his cheek. “You’re perfect.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

The sound was wrecked, on the verge of a sob, but Sherlock was there instantly to kiss it away.

“I want to give you everything,” he whispered, sweet and warm and heartbreaking. “All I am – everything I have.” One more kiss, like a promise. “It’s all yours.”

John had to swallow his heart back down from his throat to stop himself from weeping.

“ _Please_ ,” was all he could gasp out, and Sherlock’s soft smile almost made him crumble.

He brushed one last time over the very centre of him before drawing his fingers out, and was prompt in reaching for the lube again. John watched his eyes fall closed as he gave himself a few indulgent strokes, slicking himself well thorough; the last lingering bit of caution.

He held John’s gaze as his cock pressed lightly against John’s entrance, making him gasp. At John’s miniscule nod, he pushed in, just a little, and John exhaled a sharp burst of pleasure.

“Oh, God…” Sherlock breathed against his lips – he was just as overcome as John was. “God, you feel…”

John kissed him, and Sherlock pushed in further, seating himself within John inch by perfect inch – until John was moaning low into Sherlock’s mouth, full of him, surrounded by him, whirling with pleasure as Sherlock buried himself slowly up to the hilt.

John tried to speak, but no sound left his lips, so he clung tighter onto Sherlock’s back and let himself be held – let himself be filled, completed, protected by his husband, knowing always that Sherlock would give him what he needed.

“Still alright?” Sherlock whispered, heavier than usual.

John could only nod, lips brushing Sherlock’s feather-light, and he clutched him closer in a silent plea for movement.

Sherlock dipped his head for another deep kiss that made John’s head feel light on the pillow – his fingers were rubbing a soothing pattern along John’s shoulder blades, his arms held taut as he carefully settled himself down onto John’s chest, then with one slow, unbroken movement, he delicately canted his hips forward.

John gasped out another soft _oh_ as his entire body trembled – the fire burning in low embers in his chest flaring up into red-hot bursts of sensation. Sherlock moved slowly, rocking in and out of John almost unbearably gently, and still the feeling of him around him, inside him made every inch of John’s skin cry out with sublime intensity.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered, soft and fiercely reverent. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Then he shifted his angle, just a fraction, and stars exploded behind John’s eyes.

“Oh, _God,”_ he whimpered, his back arching into the movement of Sherlock’s hips. “God, Sherlock, I l-love you…”

His hands were sweaty where they were locked around Sherlock’s back, he realized dimly, and he had to dig his fingers in for purchase, but he wasn’t going to risk losing his hold, not when Sherlock’s thrusts were stroking the very centre of him, the sweet slide of his cock against John’s prostate sending him keening in his grip, every beautiful, unhurried movement of his hips flush against John’s body making his heart sing with warmth in his chest.

John hitched a leg higher and rocked with him, feeling pressure build up second by lingering second, and it was pure, slowly-mounting bliss. John’s mind had emptied itself of everything but Sherlock, his kiss-swollen lips and soothing hands and the perfect, luxurious roll of his hips that sent white-hot sparks tingling up to John’s scalp. It was everything John needed, slow and intimate and profound, and the minutes seemed to stretch out into hours, John’s head whirling with ecstasy, as Sherlock moved within him and took him apart piece by enraptured piece.

Sherlock’s arms were shaking lightly from holding himself up, his breath coming in quicker with every kiss, and John could feel the mounting tension in his body as powerfully as he could feel it in his own. He felt himself rocking back into Sherlock’s movements with more force now, pulling lower and deeper moans out of Sherlock’s throat. They were close, John could feel it, and his desire to stay in this perfect space forever was quickly shattered by another hot spike of pleasure as Sherlock began to thrust deeper, deeper, and John gasped softly as he made to reach for his cock lying trapped between them and felt Sherlock’s hand covering his, stopping him.

“Let me,” he murmured between John’s lips.

John did, nodding as he reaffirmed his grip across his back and held on tight. Sherlock shifted and John cried out softly as his thrusts deepened even further, then his voice gave out into a harsh breath as he felt Sherlock’s fingers wrap around his cock once more, stroking in time with the movement of his hips

“Sherlock…” It was barely a sound.

“Come on, John…” Sherlock murmured back, voice shaking, shoulders trembling. “Please…now, please…”

John entire body was shuddering, bucking into Sherlock’s hand and pushing back onto his cock, and his head was spinning with endorphins, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only feel, feel the flame inside him blazing up into an inferno as Sherlock rocked into that perfect spot within him, those gorgeous fingers dragging gloriously over him, pulling him to the brink…

“I will always be here, John.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, and he buried it in a kiss. “I promise you – always.”

And suddenly John was crying out, and Sherlock’s hips stuttered, and they tumbled over the edge together – John’s hips arched up into Sherlock’s touch, clinging to him as he came in one long, unbroken moan of pleasure while Sherlock gasped out a breathy cry as he came apart with his own shuddering movements. John felt him spilling warm and deep within his body as his own cock pumped out over his chest and Sherlock’s hand, and he gasped and moaned as they rode out each other’s orgasms, clutching each other tightly and breathing each other in, pleasure coursing between their bodies, perfectly in tandem.

A hazy cloud of endorphins settled on them as John sank back into the mattress and Sherlock fell into him, panting warm on his neck as they struggled to catch their breath. John’s limbs were leaden, and Sherlock was warm, and John knew he couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to, not even to push his face into Sherlock’s hair and breathe him in, pulling in his sweet musky scent as strength back into his lungs. He felt his heart – or it might have been Sherlock’s heart – settle from it’s frantic pounding back down to a hard steadiness, and as his nerve endings pulled themselves back to full awareness and felt Sherlock’s comforting weight all around him, he felt their shared tremors subside.

“I’ll be right back,” he heard Sherlock whisper sweetly against his skin, leaving a soft kiss in it’s wake, and for a moment it occurred to John not to let him go, to cling onto him till morning and damn the mess, but he dismissed the thought at the feeling of Sherlock’s gentle smile against his cheek – Sherlock knew best when it came to what John needed right now, after all. He trailed a hand down Sherlock’s arm as he gathered himself up and out of the bed, and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of him hunting for a flannel and running it under the tap trickle into his ears like a warm, babbling stream.

It washed over him soothingly in the feeling of warm cloth against his chest, his stomach, swiping gently around his soft cock – in the warmth of a body climbing back in beside him and pulling him close, tugging the sheets up around their shoulders in a soft cocoon.

“How do you feel?” came Sherlock’s murmur as his arms closed around John’s shoulders.

John smiled, nuzzling into Sherlock’s collarbone. “Perfect.”

He felt his soft smile against his temple. “No pain?”

“None.” John felt a bright glow radiate up from his chest and warm him to the core as Sherlock pressed a kiss to his hairline.

“Thank you,” John murmured into his skin. “For everything.”

Sherlock’s breath came a little heavier, John was sure, and his grip on John’s shoulders tightened. “Of course.”

“I want you to know,” John whispered softly as he pulled back to look at Sherlock’s face – at the unbearable depths of love swimming in those impossibly blue eyes. “I could never have asked for a better doctor.” He felt himself smiling gently, his heart pushing up against his throat. “You’re all I’ve ever needed.”

Sherlock exhaled a ragged breath, and his mouth pressed into a wavering line. A hand came up to cradle John’s face; John felt his wedding ring pressing lightly into his cheek.

“Just say you’ll stay with me,” he whispered. The words dug into John’s chest and buried themselves behind his ribs.

John nodded, softly, holding himself in Sherlock’s tender gaze. “Just as long as you promise to keep me.”

A small huff of laughter left Sherlock’s lips, his eyes brightening. “Then you’ll be here forever.”

“Yeah,” John whispered back, leaning in to enfold himself in Sherlock and never let go. “Forever, and beyond.”

And John kissed him, long and lingering, letting Sherlock hold him tight, letting him heal. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come follow me on [tumblr](http://totheverybestoftimes.tumblr.com)!


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